photo: ralph murre
Point of
Departure
by
Christine Swanberg
When
the last train trembles
silent in its tracks
and
the telephone’s ring becomes
its whistle
or
a lone gull’s cry
go
where
you can be smaller
than a hummingbird’s egg,
or
where you can dance
anonymous in purple socks.
Wear
a cape with stars sewn on,
a periwinkle ascot
and
unbecoming bi-focals. In fact,
unbecome altogether.
Unbecome
the
brown and black jackets
hung straight
these working years. Unbecome
your dreams of pencils,
black
coffee, tests already passed.
Let
loose
the leather leash of approval.
Bark
at anyone
who insists you heel.
Bite
the
hand that feeds you.
~
First published in WIND
